


In the Shade of Glory

by Jaelijn



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Amnesia, Community: hc_bingo, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of War, Nightmares, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-27
Updated: 2011-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26042944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaelijn/pseuds/Jaelijn
Summary: Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee – a time of festivities for the whole of London. For the residents of 221B Baker Street, however...
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Kudos: 1





	In the Shade of Glory

**Author's Note:**

> _Archiving note:_ I am importing this fic to AO3 in August 2020 for archiving purposes. It has not been edited since its original publication in 2011.
> 
>  _Original A/N on Livejournal:_ Well, [hc_bingo](https://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/) offered a tiny February Challenge to shorten the amnesty period - four prompts into one fic, lovely: WILD CARD - amnesia / nightmares / post-traumatic stress disorder / grief
> 
> Well, someday I had to build a fic around the public event in London during Holmes's career, especially since ACD doesn't as much as mention it – so, here it is. I have done some research, so the historical events should be accurate, including the route and the weather. For anyone interested, the date is the 21st and 22nd of June 1897.

I remember a time where I seemed to jump right out of my skin at every sound the volume of which was above the average cacophony one is surrounded by in everyday life. However, I could say with relative confidence that those days were past when I returned to London, or I would surely have gone mad with the noise.

If one considers that my first action on arriving in our dear city was to take up lodgings with the perhaps most difficult of tenants, it was just as well.

Sherlock Holmes, for his part, later confessed to me that he had tried to refrain from his more erratic habits in those early days of our relationship, both for the fear of being thrown out of the flat by Mrs Hudson, for whom he had the deepest respect, and for the dread that he might well scare away the one man who was willing to share the rent with him.

It is true that, had Holmes been willing to put his heart to it, he would have had no difficulty whatsoever to earn enough money for princelier quarters, but the lack of cases before we met, and, as he told me, a series of injuries which had incapacitated him for some time, had left him with a purse nearly as empty as mine.

I have never enquired further into Holmes's early career, so I fear I am unable to provide the details of those cases, but they are not the subject of this memoir in either case, for it was considerably later in our relationship that my experiences in Afghanistan returned to haunt me.

It was in the very year of Her Majesty's Diamond Jubilee, a festive time for all of London, and even Holmes, who was usually very reticent of enjoying such festivities, had been in an excellent mood for the past weeks.

One day, I found him sitting in his armchair, eyes firmly locked on the rather patriotic VR with which he had adorned our walls. He acknowledged my presence with a wave of his hand, taking a deep drag of his pipe as I settled down in my chair opposite him. “There is nothing better to remind oneself of the shortness of one's life, Watson, as to remember that one's monarch is now reigning for a good many more years than one has lived.”

I, who had not felt very young for nigh on eight years now, could not really agree with that sentiment. “You do plan on attending the festivities, then?”

Holmes smirked. “It would be a shame not to, if only for the pleasure of seeing my good friend in... festive attire, shall we say, once more.”

Holmes was revering to my intention of wearing my old military uniform for the festivities, both in honour of the Empire and in memory of the lives that were lost. The item was currently in the capable hands of Mrs Hudson for some small work that had to be done. Since my return to London, I had indeed but worn the uniform once, during events which I might one day recount, which led to some damage. I have to confess that I felt slightly uncomfortable to wear again the clothes which had served me well, but another version of which had also been what I had worn during the worst hours of my life as a soldier. That uniform, of course, had been inevitably ruined. “Once Mrs Hudson is finished with it, that is. I assume the buttons will be sparkling.”

“Oh, I am sure,” Holmes said, rising. He was in no rush, since no case had presented itself due to the preparations for the festivities. Holmes knocked out his pipe and moved to the window, looking out onto Baker Street. “Well, Watson, where shall we attend the parade?”

“I haven't decided yet. Is there a particular reason, Holmes, that you leave the decision to me?” Holmes had often asked for my opinion in the past, but when it had come to deciding on a course of action, he had always trusted his own judgement before anyone else's, whether it be the mundane decisions of everyday life or the steps in the investigation of his cases. I was not offended by this behaviour, since Holmes was usually proven right in his decisions, but I had learned as a doctor, that it could be quite bothersome. If Holmes's mind was set against anything, it took a great deal of tenancy and patience on my part to convince him otherwise.

“None,” Holmes replied, without even bothering to face me. “I find these days of tedium increasingly tiresome.”

While I had seen Holmes shift between exuberance and the blackest depression in the span of a few hours, such a rapid change of mood, however, was still out of the ordinary. Thus, quite surprised, I rose to join him by the window. “I was of the impression you were looking forward to the festivities.”

Holmes regarded me calmly, his expression carefully devoid of any emotion. “I am.” The corners of his mouth twitched into a smile, but it never reached his eyes.

“Are you sure you are all right, old fellow?”

“Yes, most certainly.” Holmes exhaled deeply. “Well, a walk, I think, before the streets are stuffed with people. Would you care to join me?”

“I think I shall enquire after the uniform.”

“Until later, then.” Holmes collected his hat and walking stick in a matter of minutes, and was out of the door ere I could muster the energy to trudge down the steps to the kitchen, where Mrs Hudson sat working on my uniform.

She greeted me with a warm smile and put down the cloth with which she had been polishing buttons. “Dr Watson! I am almost done.”

“I did not wish to interrupt you, Mrs Hudson. You really don't have to bother with those buttons.”

“Nonsense, Doctor. It is a true pleasure. After all, we all want to look our best for the occasion.” She rose and filled a kettle with water. “Will you join me for tea, Doctor?”

“With pleasure, Mrs Hudson.”

  
I was still amiably conversing with Mrs Hudson when Holmes returned, joining us in the kitchen. To both our surprises, he brought a largish parcel wrapped in some form of fabric with him, which he placed on the floor by the door before sitting down at the table.

“Have you decided on your attire yet, Mr Holmes? I shall be happy to give it as much care as the Doctor's.”

“That won't be necessary, Mrs Hudson.” Holmes's mood seemed somewhat improved by his sojourn to fresh air, even though I, who had known him for so long, could tell that it was, at least in part, a façade. “Indeed, how fares your uniform, Watson?”

“There it is, on the chair. Mrs Hudson has done excellent work.”

“I am sure,” Holmes replied, distractedly. “Well, I shall be returning to our rooms. Good evening, Mrs Hudson.”

“At what time will you be requiring dinner, Mr Holmes?”

But Holmes had already gathered up his parcel and was gone, his steps clearly audible on the stairs.

“Dinner at seven, I think, Mrs Hudson.” I picked up the uniform, which looked indeed almost too well kept to wear. “I shall go up and talk to Holmes. I am sure he is all right.”

While Mrs Hudson had not as much contact with Mr Holmes as I had, she was still very conscious of every mood of her tenant, and I had not failed to notice that his subdued behaviour had disquieted her as much as myself.

When I entered our sitting room, Holmes was nowhere in sight, but the door to his bedroom was slightly ajar. “Holmes? Are you in there?” I received no reply, so I approached the door and dared to look into Holmes's little sanctum. By that time, we had been sharing rooms for longer than anyone of us cared to remember, but it was rare indeed that we entered the other's bedroom in broad daylight. I remember the many occasions Holmes woke me in the early hours of morning, and I recall, too, the long and often anxious vigils each of us kept at the other's bedside, or even, in the early days, the times Holmes used to rouse me from the nightmares that still haunt me sometimes today, though much less frequently. However, those were always extraordinary circumstances, and we would usually shun away from breaching the privacy of our bedrooms as long as we could just as comfortably converse in the sitting room.

Holmes's bedroom was, at the best of times, a comfortable mess, at the worst of times, a chaos, however, from what I have glimpsed on several occasions, it is always a mirror of the state of Holmes's mind. During cases, his bedroom would be as orderly and well structured as his formidable mind, even though his notes and evidences tended to clutter the sitting room. When Holmes was bored, he could not be bothered with cleanliness. In those days, all odds and ends would gather around his bed.

Today, the bedroom had obviously been clean; however, Holmes sat on the floor, spreading several items around him. I could but assume that they had come from the strange parcel he had brought home. “Holmes, what is this?”

It was as I uttered the word that I noticed what I had previously believed to be merely the wrapping fabric. On the bed lay a beautifully tailored dressing gown, which I could well imagine offered both warmth and comfort – it was definitely not Holmes's size, nor mine, but I had the impression that I had seen it somewhere before.

Holmes regarded me very composedly, not showing even a glimpse of emotion. “Well, what do you deduce from this assortment?” he asked, almost mocking his own tone.

I let my gaze travel over the items scattered around him. “Surely those a personal effects – of a man, I would say, giving the box of snuff and business paper, although the necklace seems to suggest otherwise...”

“Ha!” Holmes exclaimed, rising to his feet in one fluid movement. “A mere keepsake. Go on.”

“Surely that dressing gown is your brother's?”

Holmes seemed to sober instantly. “Yes. Yes, indeed it is.”

“My dear friend, what has happened?! Don't tell me your good brother has passed on just before this momentous occasion!” I was certain that the fact that our Queen was able to celebrate her Diamond Jubilee was partly due to the stealthy, but irreplaceable workings of Mycroft Holmes, whom his brother had more than once described to me as being the British government.

Holmes smiled softly, but with a sadness that terrified me deeply. “It is not quite as terrible as that, Watson, never fear. However, I can't help but grieve the loss of such a great mind.”

I took him by the arm. “You have to tell me clearly and frankly what has happened, Holmes. I will not allow you to bear your grief alone – tell me, what has happened?”  
“Brother mine was involved in an accident, which I am sure was not entirely accidental by nature – his profession is neither as simple nor as hazard-free as he would have me believe. At any rate, Mycroft has ended up in the hospital severely injured, and has, since he awoke this morning, been unable to recall his name, much less anything else.”

“My dear fellow, that is horrible – surely you wish to stay by his side? I should not have bothered you with my anticipation for the festivities...”

Holmes waved me into silence with an imperious gesture. “What is the use, Watson? If I hadn't obtained a certain... reputation for discretion even in governmental matters which must be treated with the utmost secrecy, I wouldn't have been allowed even this one visit. Mycroft will be taken away to a private facility, where he can be isolated until he has regained full control over his capacities. As of now, he is a threat to our country as much as he was its asset before this event. I was told to put on the pretence of his demise in all due form.”  
I must confess, I was struck speechless by this revelation. I could see clearly that my friend was quite disturbed by his brother's injury – there was no-one in the world for whom he cared more deeply – but I found it equally horrifying that such an illustrious personage as Mr Mycroft Holmes should simply be locked away for an uncertain amount of time and that even Sherlock Holmes had decided that it was for the best to consider him dead.

“But surely your brother will recover!”

“That is by no means as certain, Watson. Until he does, however, the government really has no alternative – he must not be allowed to let anything slip where the wrong person might hear him.” Holmes bent down to pick up the necklace and the pocket watch, putting them into his pocket, then walked past me into the sitting room, where he took his place perched on the window sill, once again staring out onto Baker Street. I could not help but notice that he was toying with the pocket watch that clearly must have been his brother's.   
“Holmes, my dear friend...”

“I will not hear of it, Watson.”

Holmes's voice held such command that I did not dare disobey him. Instead, I gather my things and went for a walk. If Holmes noticed my departure, he made no move to acknowledge it.

I returned several hours later to find Holmes gone from the sitting room; however, his bedroom door was still slightly ajar. I could not help but notice that the blinds had been drawn, and when I heard a soft, whimpering sound, I did not hesitate for one moment and entered, turning up the gas. Holmes was curled up on the bed, his fingers clutching the fabric of his brother's dressing gown as if it were a lifeline. He was obviously asleep, but I could tell that sleep had brought no relief to his troubled mind – my friend was deep in the clutches of a nightmare.

I stepped to his side, careful not to disturb any of his brother's belongings still cluttering the floor, and shook him gently by the shoulder. “Holmes, my dear fellow, wake up. It is merely a nightmare.”

As I had expected, Holmes was roused easily and quickly, even though the terror of the dream seemed to linger in his eyes for a while. “I assure you, Watson, I am perfectly fine. You may stop hovering over me,” he declared, not even noticing that his hand was still curled into the folds of the dressing gown.

“I have known you for long enough to know that you are not. Please, Holmes, if there is anything I can do to help, let me know.”

“As much as I wished your professional knowledge could be of any use, Doctor, there really is nothing you can do.” Holmes slipped out of his bed, straightening his clothes.

“You know very well that this was not what I was talking about.”

“Do I?” Holmes shot me a smile that really was nothing of the kind. “Well, maybe I do. At any rate, Watson, this is merely a reaction to boredom, I am sure. Once the festivities commence tomorrow, I shall feel much better.”

“Now, really, Holmes! Would it hurt you for once to just admit that you are worried about your brother? Forget the Jubilee – you should be trying to find a way to be by his side. After all, you have bent the law for a good cause before!”  
“To what end, Watson? Will my brother get better if I admit that I am worried? Will the grief be any easier to bear? Will it keep the nightmares away? No, Watson. To us, my brother is dead, and there is nothing I can do to change that fact.” If Holmes had raised his voice, I would perhaps found his words to be less disturbing. However, he uttered them with such resignation that was sufficient to terrify me.

It was Holmes who broke the silence which had fallen between us, his voice falsely cheerful. “Well, have you decided on a location for tomorrow? Maybe we ought to put up a tent there, lest the crowd should be such as they expect.”

Our evening was a very quiet and very tense affair. Holmes refused to join me for dinner, his mind clearly on other matters, while I shunned away from easy conversation both for the fear of being unable to keep my silence on the matters at hand as for the dread that Holmes might try to achieve exactly that. I, who had felt the burden of unfounded grief – even though I hadn't know it was unfounded back then – could perhaps imagine what was on Holmes's mind, as inscrutable as he might be. For all his gift for acting, how could he possibly take his brother for dead whilst he knew that Mycroft was not? It was a cruel twist of fate to experience such a role-reversal.

Holmes retired early, closing his bedroom door firmly behind him ere I could utter a “sleep well”. I remained in the sitting room for a while longer, but as no sound was to be heard from Holmes's rooms, I, too, went to bed.

I was not surprised that Holmes was already quite awake when I came down in the morning, dressed in one of his usual sombre, black suits, which took a whole new meaning in my eyes. However, he was certainly dressed for the occasion, as well, his cufflinks gleaming. While he would not have been short of medals to wear, he had remained true to himself by using none – I remember stumbling over his collection once, finding them safely locked away in a box that had been gathering dust for quite some time. Holmes had been busying himself at his writing table, whirling around when he heard me enter. His expression revealed nothing of the tragedy which had befallen his family; instead, he smiled at me, no doubt taking in my whole appearance with this one look. “Well, Watson, shall we leave? Mrs Hudson has already departed to meet her friends – they are planning to attend the service at St Paul's.”

“I was rather thinking Whitehall – the Horse Guard's Arch? See, I bought this programme...”

“Yes, I've seen it.” However, Holmes's smile had disappeared without trace at my mentioning Whitehall, the very place where his brother used to work and live. “Let's go then, the streets are already packed with people, it will be quite impossible to get a cab.”

On our way, Holmes made some casual remarks about my attire, how much easier it was to deduce that I had indeed been a soldier now that I was wearing the uniform – apparently I had assumed a more military stance, reminiscent of the one I could hardly shake so early after my return to London. Now, both time and age had let to a certain decline in military apparel that even I had noticed, but when I had stepped in front of the mirror that morning, I had felt almost as young and foolish as upon my departure to the East. The truth of the matter was, I had avoided anything which might remind me of the circumstances of Maiwand, a battle so far from heroic and so horrible that it continued to haunt me for many years in my dreams as much as in my waking hours as the pain in my old wound. The nightmares were rarer now, or rather, their content had changed. More often now would I dream of those horrendous hours at the Reichenbach Falls, where I had to assume that the best and wisest man I had ever known was lost to this world forever.

Today, he seemed more figuratively than literally lost to the world. As we rounded the corner to Whitehall, winding our way through the crowd of flag-waving and cheering people, Holmes fell still, our conversation turning to almost deafening silence which seemed strangely foreign in the hubbub around us. As we took our place in the masses – thanks to Holmes's astute eye, we would have a clear view – I couldn't bear it any longer.

“Holmes, I am sure Her Majesty would forgive you if you did not attend the celebration if she knew that it was for the well-being of one of her greatest servants and a true asset to the government.”

Holmes shot me a piercing gaze, which, under normal circumstances, would have sufficed to silence me, but had little effect now. Perhaps it was because I knew that Holmes did, in his heart of hearts, agree with me, but considered his hands bound by the orders which I could only assume had come from the highest authorities.

“If there were a funeral to attend, Watson, I assure you I wouldn't be here.”

“Are you afraid then, to face his condition? I am certain that a familiar face can do wonders in such cases, and it would be my honest advice as a doctor that the patient should be surrounded by family and friends, if it should be impossible to produce a familiar environment.”

“Watson, I have no wish to argue about this. You know me well enough to deduce that I fully agree with you. However, it is not my place to say what is best for this country, and if I wish to continue to live and work here, I must obey the commands of those that do.”  
“Did they threaten you?”

“Good Heavens, Watson! There is not an adventure in every mundane occurrence in everyday life!”

“This hardly qualifies as everyday occurrence, wouldn't you agree? Holmes, as your friend, I beg you, go see your brother. I cannot help but notice how it burdens you – surely you have had doubts? Besides, I can't imagine your brother would let anything slip which you haven't already deduced.”

“Very well, I will try to convince my brother's guardians of that fact. No, Watson, stay here. I wouldn't dare depriving you of the chance to be part of such a historic occasion.” And with that, he vanished into the crowd.

Holmes never told me how he managed to find his brother, much less convince his 'guardians', as he put it, to allow him to see Mycroft – suffice to say that he was successful in his endeavour. However, I did not really get the chance to appreciate the Royal Jubilee festivities, for my own past returned with considerable force to haunt me.

It was as the procession approached our location. The crowd started pushing around me, trying to gain a better view – I must confess, it was a considerable effort to stay on my feet. Some street urchins pushed past me, cheering and yelling: “Long live the old girl!”

Someone right behind me took it upon himself to correct them - “God bless your Majesty!” - a cry which was taken up by the crowd without hesitation, even though we were hardly able to see the first line of riders through the haze of waving flags. The clattering of hundreds of hooves on the cobblestones easily drowned out any orders which might have been heard from the participants of the procession, guests from every corner of the Empire.

“There she is!” Indeed – Queen Victoria herself, sitting in a truly royal carriage, drawn by eight horses of the most splendid stature, was coming in sight, even as the guards at the Arch raised their weapons to a celebratory salvo.

I remember clearly watching it happen, even though everything after that is somewhat muddled. The shot rang out, and suddenly, the heat of the crowd was replaced by an entirely different one in my mind, the shouts becoming screams of agony, the gunshots meaning death and pain. Of course there were horses, but they had lost their riders to death or flight, racing over the sand, out of control. My uniform was sticking to my skin, drenched in sweat and blood, my hands slippery with the lifeblood of so many I had tried to save and failed – I wanted to turn and run, away from the noise, the weapons, death, but there were too many people around me, there was no escape...

“John! Dr John Watson! Doctor?”

Some part of my mind seems to have realized that what I was experiencing was nothing but an illusion, conjured up by my own mind, no doubt triggered by both the fact that I was wearing my uniform, by the heat of the summer and the salvoes fired. At any rate, I came to my sense with my back pressed against the wall in a deserted alley, a man standing before me, holding my arm in concern. “Watson? Are you all right? It is you, isn't it? I hardly dared to believe my eyes – you don't look a day older, old fellow.”

I must confess on freeing myself rather too hastily, fearing that the ghost of my past standing before me was indeed that – a phantom, conjured up by my imagination.

“Take it easy, old fellow! You look like you have seen a ghost!”

“Indeed I have – good Heavens, Murray, is it really you?” I could scarcely believe my eyes. The one man who had saved my life in Afghanistan so many years ago was now standing before me, having either pulled or at least followed me out of the hubbub in concern for my well-being.

“Aye, it's me. I must say, Watson, on close range, you do look a bit worse for wear – without the uniform, I'm not sure I would have recognised you.” Murray, who had been even younger than I when he was appointed my orderly, had certainly aged, as well. Only a boy back then, he was most certainly a man now – I had never asked his age, but I would have assumed that he was not much younger than Holmes. He, too, was wearing a uniform, however, by the looks of it, he was still working in the military. “Are you quite all right?”

“I should not return to the festivities, I think. I am afraid the shots reawakened some memories.”

“I see. Well, shall I accompany you? I still remember some things you taught me – they have come in handy during my service in India. I have come to London merely for the Jubilee.” Indeed he was wearing a uniform usual for Her Majesty's Indian Army, as it had been dubbed not two years ago. While I have not lost all my interest in military matters, I found it harder now to tell which rank my old comrade had acquired – my association with Holmes has schooled my eye for some matters, while I have forgotten others.

Now that the Queen had passed through, the crowd had dispersed somewhat, and we were able to wind our way through the remaining people, turning back towards Baker Street. I must confess, I was grateful for Murray's constant and cheerful presence, especially as the brewing stormclouds coming with horrendous claps of thunder continued to startle me. However, it also reminded me most keenly of my dear friend Mr Sherlock Holmes, whose quiet, but strong presence I had become so accustomed to. I could not help but wonder how he had fared in his endeavour to visit his brother, but there was nothing I could do to learn of his progress.

Mrs Hudson had not yet returned when we arrived at Baker Street, and neither had Holmes.

Murray was quite happy to settle into one of our armchairs and share a glass of brandy with me, all the while chatting. He had apparently learned of my association with Holmes through the press and my own humble accounts, however, he had not believed that the address given was the correct one, thus not daring to write me in person. Furthermore, the last he had heard of Holmes and myself was the account I had entitled 'The Final Problem', and while Holmes's survival was well known in certain circles, the news had not yet reached the foreign public, due to Holmes's own insistence that his involvement remain unmentioned by the press and that I delay the publication of my accounts. Naturally, I had to inform Murray that Holmes was by no means dead.

“Well, I am glad. The world certainly needs a man like him.”  
“So it does,” I agreed, watching the street with worry. The darkness of a storm was descending over our fair city, threatening to drown the sea of red, blue and white flags in very real rain. It was a shame that the festivities should be marred by such a gale; however, I did not fail to appreciate the irony, for I as was rather in the mood for rain than for sunlight, and I dared to assume Holmes would have agreed with me.

“I say, Watson, you really look a bit under the weather.”

“Just some old memories, I assure you.” I turned away from the window, pouring myself another glass of brandy.

Thus, I only noticed Holmes's return when he was already standing at the threshold of our flat, certainly not looking his best, and not, as I had expected, alone, for he was accompanied by his brother. “Watson? Would you care to introduce me to our guest?”

“Yes, certainly,” I hurried to reply, very conscious of the fact that Holmes was not very pleased to see that I had invited a stranger to him into our flat. “This is James Murray, the man who saved my life in Afghanistan.”

“I see.” Holmes walked over to the mantle to light a cigarette, waving his brother to enter. It was devastating indeed to see such a man who had been no less proud than his brother hesitating at such a daily task, whereas he had previously strode into our sitting room as if it were his. “I do not wish to appear unfriendly, General Murray, but I would appreciate it if you could postpone your reunion with Watson to some other day, as I have important matters to attend to and shall require the use of these rooms.”

“Oh, of course. Coffee, tomorrow, Watson?”

“Certainly. Until tomorrow, then.”

Murray left without any outward grudge, which was a relief to me. Holmes's often brusque and impatient manner was enough to scare away most people.

“Do you have to be so harsh, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, in a surprisingly normal tone.

“It has been the condition for bringing you here that no-one was to see or talk to you but myself and Doctor Watson. As far as the public is concerned, you are dead.”

“Well, I am just glad you managed to convince my self-appointed guardians that you were to be trusted, as well as you fellow lodger.” Mycroft settled into Holmes's own armchair, all trace of insecurity gone. “Won't you explain to Dr Watson? I see that he is very eager to know.”

“Yes, I assume you have a right to know.” Holmes sighed. “I fear I have not been entirely honest with you, Watson. While my brother is far from fine, no matter how he might put it, it is not quite true that he has lost his memory.”

“Aside from the temporary lapse of orientation one might expect after an accident such as mine.” Mycroft set aside his hat, revealing a rather thick bandage, and leant back in the armchair, rubbing his temples. “A little rest, I think, Sherlock. I am developing quite a headache.”

“Although, I had only learned of that fact this very morning,” Holmes continued as if he had never been interrupted.

“It was thought that I were safest if everyone, including my family, were to think me quite out of the game, so to speak. This morning, I was able to gather my wits long enough to convince them that Sherlock had to know the truth. However, for the sake of my safety, we have agreed to keep my survival a secret for some time, especially so long as I am vulnerable. I trust I will be no burden to you both.”

“Of course not. I am glad that your condition is not a severe as Holmes was let to believe, Mr Holmes.”

“So am I,” Holmes said, very quietly, clearly only intended for my ears. I was certain, however, that his words had not gone unnoticed by his brother.

“Well, Mycroft, I think we should get you settled on the sofa and inform Mrs Hudson that we shall be requiring supper for three – I, for one, am quite willing to retire early today. It promises to be a rough night.”

We had not yet retreated to our rooms when hell broke loose outside. I have seen many storms in my life, having grown up in the country, but I could not recall having ever experienced such horrendous weather in the heart of London. The heat of the previous days seemed to have been a warning sign for a full-grown thunderstorm. I could almost imagine the late-night celebrators scuttling for shelter from the rain.

I believe both Holmeses had noticed that I was not entirely indifferent to the clasps of thunder shaking our roof, even though I was feeling much better for having changed into more casual clothes. Still, neither of them breathed a word of their observations, and the only sign of their knowing was Holmes's questioning glance as I bid them good-night.

I had not, however, counted with the effect the new-awakened memories would have on my subconsciousness. I am unable now to recall the details of my nightmares, but I am quite convinced that they did not differ from those I have had so many years ago, haunting me almost every night – dreams of war, blood and death, as far from the glory of the Empire that had been celebrated that day as one could possible conceive.

I awoke to Holmes bending over me with a candle, his face lined with worry. Outside, the gale had continued without relief, the rain apparently having turned into something more – hail, perhaps. “Watson, are you quite all right? You should have told me that the dreams have returned.”

Holmes was revering to quite another set of nightmares, the ones that had plagued both of us after his return to London – the fear that our reunion was but a dream in itself, that we were both still living the very real nightmare that had been our constant companion for three years.

“It is not that, my friend. I am afraid the close contact with my military past has triggered some memories.”

“Well, I am certain they will fade just as quickly.” Holmes set the candle down on my bedside table, turning to leave. He had the quite extraordinary ability of being able to navigate our flat in complete darkness.

“Have you been able to get any sleep, Holmes?”

He turned to look back at me, smiling softly. “I believe, Watson, that our concerns have the quite extraordinary habit of dissolving, or, in the very least, turning out for the best.”

And so, I find even now, they have.


End file.
